


Saving Grace

by jenjam



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenjam/pseuds/jenjam
Summary: In Doctor Strange (the movie) Strange faces Dormammu and dies countless times in a timeless loop, yet not a second has passed for everybody else when he returns to Earth.... ever wonder what he got up to the 20-odd minutes it takes Thor to reach The Sanctum in Thor: Ragnarok? ;)*_*_*_*_*Possible spoilers for all Marvel films, including Infinity War.Please be kind in your comments, this is my first fic ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This take places AFTER Avengers: Infinity war, and AFTER the events of the future sequel. Thanos is defeated (no, I don't plan to write my own version of how that happens) and few people remember the first version of events.
> 
> I do intend the story to get smutty at some stage, though it may take a few chapters, so I've created it with the explicit tag.

“Don’t forget your umbrella.”

“Oh yes.”

He held out his arm toward the staircase in a summoning motion. A distant sound of clattering echoed from afar. Loud tinkles of broken crystal and glass. Metallic booming and chiming as of one object striking another. He traced the cacophony across levels above his head with raised eyebrows, finally glancing at the wizard before muttering an insincere “… ssssorry” as a black umbrella flew into his hand.

“Yes, of course I’ll need my brother back.” He absently swiped broken glass from the umbrella’s fronds as he spoke.

“Oh yeh, right.” The wizard ( _the preferred term is master of the mystic arts_ ) raised his hands in a circling motion toward the ceiling, where another circle of sparking magic appeared. There was a brief pause before a flailing form dressed all in black fell through the portal and landed with a heavy smack upon the parquet floor. The third man tossed his dark hair dramatically behind his head as he tried to catch his breath from the scream he had been half-stifling, clenched fists pressed tight against the floor.

“I have been _falling_ …” heavy breathing “… for thirty minutes!”

Thor and the wizard both rolled their eyes, Strange being the first to speak. “You can handle him from here.”

Ignoring his brother’s beginning histrionics; Thor extended his arm toward the Midgard sorcerer, clasping his glove-bound hand in his own. “Yes, of course. Thank you very much for your help.”

“Good luck.” replied Strange, sharing a knowing look with the Asgardian.

Behind Thor, Loki leapt to his feet, already pooling his magic to his hands, anger and frustration mixed on his face, with a flicker of something else too quick to be noticed.

“ _Handle me?!_ ” He turned to face his not-brother, then glared in agitation at the sorcerer. “Who are you?” He flicked his arms and twin daggers appeared in his hands as he stepped forward, raising his eyebrows in disdain, malice imbued in his every move.

“You think you’re some kind of sorcerer? Don’t think for once minute, you second-rate …”

His tirade was cut off as the _second-rate sorcerer_ rolled his eyes – not for the first time - and raised his hands toward the first portal, still standing beside him. With a flick of his wrist he flung the gateway toward Thor and Loki, who both found themselves flung through space to land unharmed upon a grassy cliff.

Back in the sanctum, Strange brushed his hands of imaginary dust as he regarded the floor where both warrior and mage had so recently stood. One corner of the cloak lifted tentatively to brush across the back of Stephen’s hand in a silent question. Stephen caressed the soft fabric for a moment before sighing.

“Yeh, I know. I’m going to regret that, aren’t I?”

Sighing once more, he turned toward the staircase and made his way up to his study, where he considered the events of the day. After many hours of thought, he went to bed with no more answers than when he had started.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Some months later, Stephen found himself standing again at the foot of the stairs, pondering the place where Loki had landed from his fall. A strange sensation had been building in him in all day which he could not explain. A sense of anticipation, jumbled nerves; dread and excitement rolled into one. He knelt and placed his bare hand against the floor, looking for … he didn’t know what he was looking for. He was still lost, and this memory was not the answer he was chasing.

Behind him, the staircase showed no damage from where The Hulk had fallen to Earth, precipitating the tragic events which took place dealing with Thanos - so much destruction, so much suffering. Still, at least this time Stephen had only to die once before the universe was put to rights, unlike the countless times he had died facing Dormammu. He found it hard to be grateful when he was the only one to remember. The only one to still feel his body crumble to ash, his very existence reversed and restored. This was the burden of the keeper of time.

Sighing, Stephen stood and wearily rubbed at his eyes with one trembling hand. He remembered _everything_ \- whether he wished to or not. His dreams were now filled with flashes of a past that nobody else remembered; there was nobody he could share his knowledge – his grief – with. This was his to bear, alone.

Was this why the Ancient One had at times seemed so cold? So distant from all around her? It was not the first time Stephen had pondered this, not the first time he had questioned his ability to maintain his sanity keeping himself separate from the unknowing others around him. His tentative attempts at rebuilding his friendship with Christine had been hard enough after his trials with Dormammu, but his sole knowledge of the events of the fight against Thanos had been the final straw. He could not remain friends with anyone still in the “normal” world.

He had tried – once – to speak to Wong about what had happened, hoping to find at least some level of understanding from his fellow sorcerer, but even he had flailed at what Stephen had tried to explain, and his questions about everything surrounding Thanos and the days he did not remember only sent Stephen further into his own isolation and despair.

He did not have the answers, and he felt weary in a way he had never felt before. Not in the anguished months in hospital and therapy after his accident, not after his countless deaths at the hands of Dormammu. He felt more alone, more adrift than at any point in his life. How could he protect the world, the multiverse, when he felt so raw, so alone and unanchored?

Tearing himself from his dark thoughts, Stephen squared his shoulders and shook his head. This did him no good. He had an obligation, an _accountability_ to protect this world. He needed to …

… the doorbell rang. Startled, Stephen turned his head toward the ornate door leading to the familiar streets of New York. He hadn’t even known the sanctum _had_ a doorbell. In fact, he was rather sure it didn’t.

Wary, he waited a moment, thinking the noise perhaps in his head, before it chimed again. He made his way toward the door, chanting a quick protection spell as he went. Hand on the doorknob, he paused for a moment, before the chime rang a third time, insistently _how could a sound be insistent_ and he opened the door quickly.

Nobody. Nobody stood in front of him and – glancing quickly to both sides of the door frame – there was indeed no doorbell that he could see. He stepped forward to find the source of the phantom chimes and almost tripped as his foot connected with something heavy on the doorstep. Startled, he glanced down and … no.

No. This …. couldn’t. Just, no …

A basket. It even appeared to be made of wicker. Was this a joke?

A snuffling noise made his heart pound and he thought not.

Bending down, Stephen flicked the hood of the basket to see exactly what one would expect to see ( _in a dream or a movie, not in real fucking life_ he thought frantically) in a wicker basket left abandoned on a doorstep.

A tiny infant, not more than a few weeks old; pale skin; piercing blue eyes with a strange shine to them, wispy mop of dark curls on the top of his/her (how the hell was he supposed to know?) head. Tiny mouth not yet able to smile, and beginning to pout in a way which was sure to soon mean shattered eardrums, or worse.

He should do something. He should …

The first wail split the air and Stephen could see passers-by on the busy street beginning to pay attention. That, he did _not_ need. He hastily bent and picked up the basket by its handle and stepped back inside the sanctum, slamming the door before placing the basket not-gently on a side table just inside the doorway and then taking a step back and regarding the basket and its contents with suspicion.

The crying continued, gaining in volume, and Stephen quickly cast a spell on the front door so that no noise could escape to the city streets. That didn’t help for him in here, however.

What the fuck was he supposed to do? He was (was being the operative word) a neurosurgeon, not a fucking paediatrician! On the rare occasion he’d had to deal with children they were always anaesthetised by the time he laid his delicate hands on them, and he had _certainly never_ operated on one so small!

Fucking fuck _fuck!!!_

He had to do something, and quickly. The crying was still getting louder and how the _fuck_ did something so small make _this much noise_? Shaking his head and wincing at the piercing cries Stephen took a deep breath before stepping closer to the basket and cautiously placing one hand on the baby’s cheek.

 _So soft_! How was anything on earth this soft? In his wonder, it took him a moment to realise the baby had stopped crying and was looking up at Stephen, its breath catching on unuttered sobs. Tracing his trembling hand over the soft features, Stephen and the baby regarded each other for a moment.

That was … odd, wasn’t it? A baby this young surely had no true awareness of its surrounding, no real sense of other people, but no – this one was definitely looking _at_ him. After a few silent moments of this contemplation of each other, its bottom lip (must stop calling it **_it_** ) started to quiver again, and Stephen reached into the basket without thinking, pulling the baby up and out and cradling it gently in his somehow now steady hands.

It was cold. _Jesus, so fucking cold, were babies normally this cold?_ Somehow responding to his thoughts, as it always did, the cloak shrugged itself from Stephens’s shoulders and wafted around his body to the baby, offering itself as a blanket. Stephen paused, and then gratefully wrapped the soft material around the still crying baby, ending with a swaddled bundle of pale and tiny body laying defenceless in his arms.

Only then did he glance back at the basket to see a note – _of course there’s a fucking note_ – in the bottom of the wicker where he had removed the child. Hoping for some clue, Stephen fished it out with one hand and his heart sank at the brief words written.

**_S_ **

**_Protect her._ **

**_L_ **


	2. Chapter 2

**_Approximately 10 months earlier_ **

The portal appeared in mid-air; approximately ten feet above the floor, and Loki fell through -arms and legs akimbo - landing hard on a white, barren floor. Desperately catching his breath he leapt to his feet and looked around at … nothing.

In every direction nothing but whiteness stretching into forever. He gathered his seiðr around him and reached out for Thor’s presence, to take himself back … and failed. He tried again. His magic was right _there_ as it always was; he could feel it gathering in his skin, in his blood, ready for whatever task he wished, but he could not move from this place.

Experimentally he conjured his daggers, which appeared instantly to his hands. He cast illusions against the whiteness which appeared with flawless ease. Summoned an army of clones stood to attention, awaiting instruction. Changed his form at will, flowing fluidly from one shape to another – female, cat, dragon, horse, Vanir, dwarf - and back to himself. All this he could do.

He reached once more for the city street where he had stood only minutes before, tried to slip sideways from this place to that - nothing. He had his power, all abilities intact, but not that.

“Impressive display.”

Loki turned, startled at the voice in the empty space. No longer empty. Before him stood a Midgardian dressed in strange robes, a billowing red cloak settled on his shoulders. Grey tipped hair swept in a wing at both temples, eyes shifting colour as he watched the mage in front of him warily.

Loki could feel the power emanating from him and his own magic shivered against the inside of his skin. It reached out toward the other man, who allowed it to brush over him briefly - he tasted delicious. Loki tried pushing harder and then felt the other’s magic snap at his own _enough – no more_ in a stinging refusal.

“Who are you?” he half-snarled, summoning his daggers once again. He moved forward in open threat, whereby the other man simply arched an eyebrow and sighed, pointing his hands at the ground in front of Loki’s feet in a circling gesture.

A portal appeared immediately and Loki’s momentum carried him forward into it and he was falling once more. He reappeared moments later through another portal in the air and landed, again, on the white floor, the sorcerer still standing in the same place in front of him.

“You done?”

Loki growled, raising to one knee and flinging daggers of ice toward the sorcerer who merely batted them from the air with a casual wave of his hand. Then he gestured once more in that circling motion beneath where Loki still knelt.

“No! Wait …” his words were cut off as the portal opened once more beneath him. He fell.

Landing hard once more, he changed form into that of a large jaguar, black as night and leapt snarling at the sorcerer … straight into an already forming portal.

He fell, transforming back to his Asgardian form as he hit the floor yet again.

He conjured six clones, all leaping in different directions across the floor as he turned himself invisible and crept on silent feet toward the sorcerer … who followed his every unseen movement and formed another portal even as Loki raised his arm to strike him down, flinging it toward Loki and pushing him through.

He fell, visible once more.

“I can do this all day, you know.” The sorcerer smirked. “I battled Dormammu for a century in this fashion. I rather think you will grow weary of it before I.”

Loki paused halfway to pulling himself to his feet and regarded the sorcerer anew.

“ _You_ defeated Dormammu?” Loki scoffed, unbelieving.

“Defeated? No.” The sorcerer shook his head. “I doubt any being, even you,” _Loki rolled his eyes_ “has the power to do that. No, I merely trapped him in a time loop and forced him to a bargain.”

He said this almost casually and Loki was reluctantly intrigued. That was a story he would like to hear. Perhaps this mortal magician was something more than he had first thought. Perhaps …

“And this?” Loki gestured around him at the white nothingness surrounding them both. “Another time loop? Is this how you intend to force _me_ to bargain?” Loki for some reason found himself genuinely interested in the response.

“Not so much a _loop_ as a pause in time. And I seek no bargain; more a …. understanding, if you will.” The sorcerer stepped forward and scanned Loki’s face, searching for something. “A mutually beneficial agreement.”

Loki pondered this. He had no doubt he could eventually break the sorcerer’s hold on him in this place, but to what end? It was possible – even likely, considering the power he had felt from the other, and the way his own reacted to it – that the sorcerer may be worthy of exchanging knowledge with.

Still, there were … other considerations to be taken into account. Thor’s search for Odin, Thanos’ continued threat against the realms; these could not be forgotten. Then he remembered - what had the sorcerer said, _a pause in time_?

“What of Thor?” he asked.

The sorcerer waved Loki’s concerns away. “Thor remains where you left him, and will do so until we are ready to return. Time – for all intents and purposes – does not exist here. We could both grow old and die and Thor would still be staring at the pavement in New York.”

Loki grinned, eyes crinkling. That changed things immensely to his satisfaction. An exchange of knowledge, an understanding to be reached, and no threat or delay to the tasks still before him. Truly wonderful.

“Where do we begin?”

The sorcerer met his smile with one of his own and conjured a seating arrangement – chairs angled toward one another, a table between them with an already steaming pot of tea and matching jade cups. He then stepped forward and offered his hand to the mage, who took it without hesitation.

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange. Please, take a seat.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a little while at least, chapters will alternate between then (approx 10 months ago) and now.
> 
>  

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

 

**_Now …_ **

“Woooooooooong!”

The man so called started and almost dropped the armful of books he was carrying, in the middle of placing them back on their shelves. The voice shouted again “Wong!” and he sighed. Would Strange never learn? This was a _library_ , Kamar-Taj’s most sacred room, filled with centuries of knowledge and power. It was a room for study and silent contemplation, not bellowed summonses and … crying? Was that …

Wong stepped out from the stacks onto the main floor of the library as Stephen continued looking around the library in search of him. One corner of his cloak was raised and appeared to be carrying some kind of wicker basket, while in Stephen’s arms …

“That’s a baby.”

Stephen spun toward him, relief painted on his face even as he rolled his eyes at his fellow sorcerer.

“Brilliant observation, Wong.” The baby in his arms continued crying, and Stephen jiggled it gently, making _shoosh_ noises at the small face. Stephen looked back up at Wong.

“Do we still keep baby formula in the common kitchen?” he asked desperately.

Wong continued to stare for a moment, then placed the books _he had forgotten he was still carrying them_ on a nearby table, brushing dust from his hands against his robes. “For emergencies, yes.”

“ _Trust me_ , this qualifies!” Stephen strode across the library floor to the exit leading to the common areas of the temple, and Wong – after another minute of bemused stillness – followed.

He found Stephen in the kitchen, opening door after door in search of the needed formula. The baby’s cries were becoming quite frantic, and Stephen continued trying to settle it as he destroyed the kitchen, pulling pantry items from their shelves and casting them aside. Wong sighed and stepped past him to a cupboard clearly marked “baby” and pulled a gold tin out, followed by a small bottle and teat. Pushing Stephen out of the way he silently began preparing the formula to the instructions on the side of the can.

“How long since that was last used?” Stephen demanded suddenly. “How do you know it’s still good?”

Wong stayed silent, merely turned the tin toward where Stephen stood, an expiry date still months in the future clearly displayed on the side.

“Oh.”

Wong finished making the formula and turned the tap on, waiting for the water to heat before running the bottle through the stream to gently warm the formula inside.

“Wait!” Wong looked up at Stephen, who was somewhat glaring at him. “Was that bottle sterilised? When was it last used? Who …”

“STRANGE!” Wong cut through Stephen’s train of thought. “The bottle is fine.” He held up a hand as the other sorcerer’s mouth opened once more. “It is _fine._ ”

The two stared at each other in silence broken only by the soft hiccupping cries of the infant as Wong continued heating the bottle, testing the heat every few seconds against his wrist until he was satisfied with the temperature. He passed the bottle to Stephen, who eyed it suspiciously before offering the teat to the baby, who latched onto it immediately with loud suckling noises.

Stephen smiled and let out a relieved sigh. Wong watched the pair of them for a minute, silent as always, before turning to begin placing the kitchen items back in their cupboards from where Stephen had haphazardly strewn them. Once finished he faced Stephen once more, to see one corner of the cloak lift to waft gently over the baby’s head in a soothing gesture. The other corner still held the basket, now held out toward Wong in an obvious _here, take this_ motion. Wong obliged and the cloak disengaged from Stephen’s shoulders to float in front of the sorcerer, close to the infant in Stephen’s arms, occasionally lifting a corner to brush against the baby again.

Looking inside the basket, Wong saw and quickly read the note tucked inside, then placed both on the kitchen sink.

“Who is she?” he asked softly. No reply from his friend and colleague. He appeared entranced, mutely staring at the baby in his arms as if beholding a miracle. They made an odd sight, sorcerer and baby, with the cloak of levitation hovering close in protection of them both.

Wong tried again. “Does she have a name, at least?”

“I don’t know.” Finally a reply. “There wasn’t one on the note, but … she’s a few weeks old, maybe a month? She must have a name, right?” He looked up at Wong then, shaking his head in confusion. His attention was brought back to the baby in his arms as she pulled her mouth from the bottle with a contented gurgle.

Stephen placed the almost-empty bottle on the sink and brought the baby higher to his shoulder, making gentle rubbing motions on her back. The quiet of the room was then broken by a disproportionately large burp and Stephen laughed, while Wong merely smiled indulgently.

While Stephen continued to burp the now sleepy baby, Wong turned and began placing items from the cupboard into the empty basket – formula, extra bottles, sanitising solution – for Stephen to take home, assuming that was his intention. His hand paused over the nappies before turning to look once more at the baby and then selecting what he deemed to be the appropriate size. Deep in his own thoughts, Wong considered what else might be needed, before turning and quickly walking from the room.

Startled by his abrupt departure, Stephen called a soft “ _Wong?”_ after his back, careful of disturbing the now sleeping baby. There was no reply.

When Wong returned a short while later, Stephen was sitting at the dining table drinking an obviously much needed cup of tea, one knee folded across the other in his usual manner. In front of him, the cloak had folded itself up to create a soft cradle in which the baby rested, floating an inch or so above the surface of the table. Stephen gestured toward the kitchen bench where a full pot of the freshly brewed tea sat, a cup ready next to it.

Wong poured for himself and then joined Stephen at the table. He silently extended a hand to Stephen, offering a plush bunny rabbit almost as large as the baby herself. Stephen smiled softly and took the rabbit with a nod of thanks, hand trembling as he caressed the soft purple fur. They sat in silence, sipping at their tea, Stephen continuing to hold the rabbit, staring in fascination at the baby floating in front of them, the cloak swaying slightly in a rocking motion, keeping her safe and warm.

Long minutes passed.

“Is she yours?” Wong finally broke the silence, not making contact with the other sorcerer.

Stephen placed his empty tea cup on the table and rubbed a trembling hand over his eyes and face, pressing hard at his temples before sighing again.

“I don’t know.”

Wong recognised that as not-a-no; but simply nodded and pondered the possibility.

“Don’t you think you should find out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to see here folks – just the Sorcerer Supreme relaxing with a cuppa with a swaddled baby levitated in front of him. Just another day at the office.


End file.
